


It ain't no life (to live like you are on the run)

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Domestic, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-12 06:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11156631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: For the prompt: Jackson Healy: Reluctant Field Trip ChaperoneWhile on a field trip with Holly's class, Healy realizes that he's 100% Holly's other dad. Holly already knows this. So does practically everyone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from an Adele song: Water under the bridge.

Jackson Healy looked over the crowd, making sure there were no drunk troublemakers among his students, the sort who decided that sneaking inside a run-down gym after a night on the town was a good idea. It was early Sunday morning and the sun outside the gym had already heated the pavement so much that it was practically melting, but that hadn’t stopped those who were going to attend this self-defense class. Clearly that ad had delivered.

Every single chair was filled, all sorts of shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Boots, heels, sneakers, saddle shoes and endless sandals. Healy looked down at his own well-worn sneakers and decided that they were good enough for the job.

And the students were all women, or at least people who dressed in a way that indicated as much. He didn‘t have his glasses on. Some of them were holding hands and nodded discreetly at him, as if he was in on some secret pact. Perhaps he was.

Holly poked her head into the room, still holding their grocery bags from their run to the shop earlier. She dumped them on the floor in the corner and waved at the crowd. Some of the ladies waved back. Holly sat down cross-legged on a discarded yoga mat beside the bags and leaned back against the wall.

“Violence always escalates,” Healy began, making sure that his voice was even and factual. “The important thing is to know what to do when it does. I’m here to teach you all the basics of self-defense so you know how to react when someone tries to attack you and you can’t run or call the police.”

“Don’t we all have a flight-or-fight response anyway?” a woman in the back asked. “Are you going to teach us how to break someone’s arm?”

“What?” Holly said, looking up from rummaging around in the bags.

“When someone attacks you, for example from behind,” Healy explained. “You have to make that decision to hurt another person and that is something that society spends a lot of time telling people is not okay. People usually freeze or flail, because they don’t know what to do and are surprised and afraid. Hitting someone or grabbing them means that you have to _decide_ to do it.”

“But-“ the woman said. “I thought you were going to give us some sort of demonstration, like showing us how to stick our fingers in someone’s eyes…”

“Someone who reacts to being attacked by straight up blinding someone is a person who is very accustomed to brutal violence,” Healy said, frowning. “Not exactly someone you want around for tea, that one.”

“Should that kid be hearing all this?” someone questioned, gesturing towards Holly.

“She’s with me,” Healy said, and ignored the usual whispers that began at that admission. He could hear snatches of questions such as ‘step-father?’ and ‘baby-sitting gig?”

And then the low, but approving murmurs from regular students, who’d seen Holly before and knew who she was.

He glanced at Holly, who was looking at him with a pensive expression. She’d found an apple in the grocery bag and was eating it with the single-minded expression of a hungry teenager.

“I’m here to teach you how not to break your own fingers when you punch someone and how to step on someone’s feet when they grab you, for starters,” Healy explained to his students. “It’s essential to build muscle-memory so that your body knows how to react, even if you are scared. Please form into groups of four and we’ll start…”

The class went rather smoothly, as more experienced students gave the newcomers tips when Healy was moving between the groups, demonstrating how to throw an effective punch or stomp on someone’s foot.

Basics were important, Healy found himself repeating again and again to all those who looked skeptical. Basics kept you alive.

He walked around the room for two hours, until everyone’s posture was right and many of the had learned how to use their wedding or engagement rings as makeshift brass-knuckles. The clients all looked pleased as their moves became more confident and saw that Healy was nodding at them in an approving manner.

“This was kinda cool,” Holly said, shifting the paper bags in her arms as they watched the last lady step outside the room into the hallway on her way to the locker room.

“It’s nice to be useful,” Healy said, turning off the light and closing the door behind them. “And the money comes in handy.”

Holly smiled, looking down at the vegetables that peeked out from the bag. Healy filed her approval in attending these classes away in a corner of his mind. He’d never thought anyone he knew on a personal level would want to see this part of his life. This self-defense class had been his one steady income for a few years, and his only income at times. But Holly was looking happy, her tennis shoes barely making a sound on the still-wet floor in the hallway. She didn’t associate this job with someone who had been trying to cash in on what he’d considered to be his only selling point: his ability to fight. She just thought that it was nifty that he taught people to protect themselves from harm.

These classes were now a normal part of their Sunday morning routine, just after they shopped for groceries while Holland slept. The detective agency was closed on Sundays, and March rarely worked in the morning anyway. Besides, the pay Healy got for teaching a regular and popular class was enough to cover the rent of his old room, which had now been changed so that it was an office for the detective agency, groceries and other things that came up. The paychecks he earned alongside March had all been used to rebuild the old house. Now the new house was ready, and they were slowly amassing enough money to buy proper furniture.

“I used to buy the groceries when Dad forgot,” Holly said.

“I could tell,” Healy said.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t had any food. The Marchs usually had bread and milk and a bowl full of fruit. And a few cereals in the otherwise bare cupboards.

The sort of food you grabbed in the morning or after school. The sort of food a kid would buy at the corner store and no adult think much about it.

Back when Healy had thought he’d only be staying with the Marchs for a short time, he’d brought home sacks of potatoes and cartons of eggs and even breakfast foods from diners from time to time. He’d figured it was the least he could do.

Somehow it had become his role in their little team: provide food and cooking evening meals. At times Healy wondered how he’d stumbled into the life of a part-time housewife. He even had his own apron, stuffed into one of the cupboards in the new kitchen. But Holland didn’t trust his own nose and said he couldn’t taste most things anyway and was afraid he’d just put way too much salt and pepper on everything. So, cooking was Healy’s job. Not that he was unsuited to the job. He knew how to cook. There was something about having access to fresh vegetables and meat after spending time in prison that made a man want to learn how to make food taste good.

His wife hadn’t been one to cook and preferred going to restaurants in the evenings. She’d always looked at him strangely when he’d made something from scratch, as if she didn’t think he had any business knowing how to make a mean batch of brownies. Now, that was a skill Holly was deeply appreciative of, since he’d once whipped up some for a school bake sale and she’d sold every last piece. And March was happy enough to discover that Healy had popped an extra slice of bread in the toaster in the mornings.

Holly was humming a tune underneath her breath as Healy handed over the keys to the lady in the gym’s reception, who looked at Healy in an appreciative manner and waved goodbye. Healy looked at the discarded free weights in the hallway and forgotten tennis shoes. He fought the urge to smooth the material over his stomach and ignored the voice in his head that berated him for not becoming an actual member of this gym so he could make sure that he’d remain strong. He knew that he was much thicker than he’d been just fifteen years ago, but quickened his step as if to outrun the thought.

They hurried to his car, careful to walk in the shadows as much as they could. Holly spent her time switching between radio stations and looking out the window until they became stuck in traffic.

“Hey, Mr. Healy?” she asked, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, kid,” Healy replied, half-focusing on how much the traffic was moving and half-hoping that she wasn’t going to ask him in-depth questions about how to break your own fingers when you were punching someone.

“Do you and Dad are going to be on a case tomorrow?” she asked.

“I think your dad is going to spend his time moving the last things from the rental into the new house,” Healy said. “Even if he’s got one arm in a sling, he can still hold a lamp or two.”

“So, if you’re free, do you think that you can come on the school field trip with me?” Holly asked, looking hopeful. “Dad’s no good at that kind of stuff.”

Healy stepped on the gas pedal and the car inched forwards. He tried to ignore the warning bells in his head at the mere thought of being surrounded with teenagers.

“What would I be doing?” Healy said, eyeing the way Holly had already begun smiling because she hadn’t said no right away.

“You’d be like a chaperone,” Holly said. “You know, to keep an eye out for everyone. You’d make sure that no one runs away or spends all their time making out with their boyfriend or girlfriend instead of looking at stuff in the museum.”

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for that sort of thing,” Healy said carefully. “I was never really good at school.”

He didn’t mention that he’d been sent to juvie or that he’d spent so much time being beaten up and fighting that there hadn’t been much time for homework. Holly never asked about his scars.

Healy knew that he was a beater, still, and would always look like one. Why would anyone think he’d be suitable to supervise a bunch of teenagers?

“It’s just that my teacher said that it’s my turn to bring a parent as a chaperone and Dad’s got his arm in a sling, and all…” Holly said.

Healy bit back three or four replies about not being Holly’s parent. There was another reason that March could not go and that was that his hands shook quite a bit these days, since he was on the wagon and had stayed there for quite some time. But recovery took time.

“I’ll see if your dad is okay with me going instead,” Healy said, glad that traffic was moving again.

Holly leaned back in her seat, her smile widening as if she’d already sealed the deal.


	2. Chapter 2

The kitchen was brightly lit, the sun shining on the new cabinets and tile floor. March was sitting on a chair with his feet on the kitchen table, a cigarette in his hand. Smoke wafted to the ceiling. Healy had explained Holly’s plan to get him to be a chaperone instead of March while putting away the groceries.

March had just given Holly the thumbs up and complimented her for her good thinking.

“Better you than me,” March said when Holly had retreated back to her room. “Besides, Holly really likes you.”

Healy was folding the paper bags and stowing them away in a drawer for later use. He had found the new chopping board and was inspecting a handful of carrots to see if he wanted to peel them before he’d start chopping them.

“That doesn’t mean that someone like me should be put in charge of an entire class when the teacher decides to go on a long smoke-break,” Healy said and began chopping the carrots for tonight’s stew.

“What do you mean, someone like you?” March asked, furrowing his brow. “Why are you so much worse than those housewives that always show up?”

“I’m a thug,” Healy stated and turned around to face March, putting away the knife so he wouldn’t end up hurting himself. “No animals in the house, right?”

“Former thug,” March said after a while, crushing the cigarette on a nearby ashtray, as if he was punishing it for some imagined slight. “You’re a private detective and a self-defense teacher these days. They’re not gonna look at you and throw you out of the school bus.”

Healy crossed the kitchen and sat down across from March, pushing his feet away so that March removed them from the table.

“Just ‘cos I leave the brass knuckles at home doesn’t mean they can’t see what I used to do for a living,” Healy said. “Even if I’ve…softened a bit in the past few years you can still- “

“Hey,” March said, stopping Healy in his tracks. “I bet they’ll be glad to see you there. Holly’s teacher keeps making comments about how happy she is at school these days and that her grades are better since she’s clearly getting help with her homework. That’s on you.”

“The teacher might approve, but I’m not sure those housewives will,” Healy said.

“Nah,” March said. “They’ll just be unhappy their husbands don’t show up like that to help out. We might even get a bit of business out of that. They might start wondering what their fellows are so busy doing so they’re too occupied to watch the kids, right?”

“Well, alright,” Healy said. “I’ll go. At least that means that you won’t fall on your face in that museum and break something.”

“Not to mention keeping that good reputation you have with the school,” March said. “Can’t forget that.”

Healy stood up and made an approving noise. He returned to his task of chopping a ridiculous amount of vegetables for the stew. It had to simmer for a few hours before it was ready. He tried to focus on dumping potatoes into a separate pot so they’d boil before he’d put them into the stew itself, but his mind kept wandering back to his own childhood and faded memories of field trips to the local library. It had been a long, long time.

 

 

Holly and March spent the rest of the day shopping for towels and kitchenware and all those things you needed in a house while Healy let the stew simmer and paid the bills. He even swept the floors. Most of his time, however, was spent wondering how the hell he’d ended up in this house instead of alone in his room above the Comedy Shop. Of course, he knew the steps he’d taken to get here, but there were times where all this felt bizarre.

“Dad said that it was okay that you came to the museum instead of him, right?” Holly asked in the middle of dinner, pouring herself a glass of apple juice.

“No problem at all,” March said, stirring his stew. That man was so jittery he barely managed to finish a meal. At least they would have plenty of leftovers.

“Great!” Holly said and began eating her stew.

Healy wanted to tell her not to get her hopes up, he wasn’t sure how much use he’d be. But it was only one day, after all. There was no harm in just showing up and seeing how things developed.

March lingered in the kitchen after dinner was over and Holly had gone into her room to finish her homework. Healy was silent and began washing the dishes, spending too long making sure that each utensil and plate was completely clean before putting them on the drying rack.

“In a way, it’s better if you go on that trip,” March said, picking up a plate and drying it with a towel. “You like to see things through. And you’re way more reliable than I am.”

“As soon as they see me, they’re gonna know that I’m not you,” Healy said. “What if they think that I’m there by some mistake?”

“Holly will explain that you’re there instead of me because I’m injured,” March said, patting his arm. “And she’s told them about you already and her friends have seen you around.”

March looked at him with that searching look he usually reserved for clients and dumped dry knives into the cutlery drawer.

“I don’t want to fuck this up,” Healy said, putting the cutting board on the drying rack.

“You’re not going to do that,” March said, sounding as if he thought the idea was really weird and at least a little bit stupid. “Why do you’re gonna, anyway?”

Healy felt a hand on his back. He crushed the urge to shrug it off, his body registering it as the beginning of a fight. And wasn’t that a part of the problem?

A lifetime of fighting caused a guy to begin to think of other people as potential threats you had to get rid of. Depersonalization was the word for it, his calendar had informed him one morning in June a couple of years back.

And his ex-wife had never touched him like this to comfort him. When she had decided to touch him, it was mostly because she needed him to do something for her, and it was never pleasant. Usually it was something like cleaning the gutters. Other times, she touched him to humiliate him, making a comment about how he didn’t look like the man she’d married and then she’d pat his stomach.

March did none of these things.

March’s touches were usually casual ones, born out of feelings of camaraderie and friendliness. He’d sling an arm around Healy’s shoulders or a hand on his arm when they were working and grin at him all the while. Healy had lost count of how many times March had grabbed his hand when they were chasing some idiot who’d been cheating on his wife, often loudly remarking that he wasn’t going to know where Healy was unless he’d hold onto him because it was dark outside. A lie, of course. But it was one that Healy didn’t mind hearing.

March was a tactile person. That was just a fact.

And he’d constantly compliment Healy for his strength and capabilities, making comments about how damn easy it was to be taken seriously when you were partners with a big guy like him or that Healy could probably carry him like a bride or a sack of potatoes any time he felt like it. March seemed to be pleased to have him around all the time, which Healy felt was nice, but odd. He wasn’t used to other people looking at him like he’s someone they want to spend time with.

Or like he was desirable.

After they’d established their mutual attraction and agreed that this was a long-term thing, March had never really stopped acting like he was the luckiest man alive. Of course, there had been rough spots. But there had been enough happiness and sloppy kisses and enthusiastic sex that things had somehow worked out.

“I’ve never had it so good before,” Healy managed, gesturing to the entire kitchen and March himself. “I don’t want to disappoint her.”

March’s hand moved from his back to his shoulder.

“Just try to be friendly to the teachers and make sure the kids don’t get hurt,” March advised. “You’ll be just fine.”

Healy nodded.

“Want to have an early night?” Healy asked, looking down when he felt March’s fingers on his collarbone. “I think that Holly’s turned in.”

“Big day tomorrow,” March said, smiling.

Healy ducked his head, smiling back. He headed to the bathroom while March headed straight for the bedroom.

Healy brushed his teeth over the sink, raking a hand through his hair. The bathroom was new, just like the rest of the house. The tiles were shiny, not covered with decades of grime or chipped. A new life, that was what this was.

Up until this moment, Healy had felt like every day living and working with March was some kind of weird miracle. He’d never believed that he’d get anything like this. So, every paycheck that went into buying wood or paying the construction company, or anything like that, it had felt like he was trying to reach some impossible goal.

He hadn’t just been buying a house with someone. He’d helped build it.

Every single tile and wall was because he’d worked with March to find missing girls and husbands and wives or making sure that someone was in fact having an affair. Little cases and big cases, they’d all paid for this.

It didn’t take long to check on Holly, who was reading a Nancy Drew book in bed. Healy squinted at the cover, but his reading glasses were on the nightstand, so he couldn’t use them to see what exact book it was.

“Good night, Mr. Healy,” she said.

“Night, sweetie,” Healy said, smiling at the cheerful look on her face.

 

Tomorrow felt like a test.

Bringing him along with her on this field trip felt like making his life as it was now, in this house and with March and Holly, a part of reality. Like it was an advertisement that he wasn’t going anywhere. He was a steady enough fixture in their lives that Holly felt comfortable inviting him and trusting him with this task.

Healy knocked on the door of the master bedroom, just to make sure that March was in there. He heard the tell-tale thump of March bumping into the dresser and then cursing.

“You live here too,” March said, opening the door. “You don’t have to knock.”

“I know,” Healy said. “Didn’t want to disturb you by barging in.”

March shrugged and gestured for him to come inside. He was already half-undressed, hair mussy. Healy stepped inside the room, which didn’t look all that different from the old bedroom back at the rental. He'd clearly brushed his teeth while Healy had been checking on Holly. 

That was nice, since it meant that kissing him would be less like kissing an old ashtray and more like kissing someone who cared about the other person's experience of said kiss.

Healy unbuttoned his own shirt slowly and hung it up in the dresser. These days he had more than nine shirts, including his dress shirt that went with his suit. Holly had insisted on going shopping with him and March to make sure he had stuff that made them look like proper detectives. There were five dress shirts in there now, ranging from white to light blue and two new and tailored suits that a former client who was a wedding planner had included as a part of her pay. He even had two new pairs of jeans and a mountain of socks.

He took off his socks and threw them in the laundry hamper. Soon the belt was off too and he put it on the chair beside his side of the bed. Last came the jeans, which he folded and put on the chair too. He could feel March’s eyes on him, watching his slow, careful movements.

It had taken him months to be able to buy a pair of pajama bottoms instead of sleeping in his jeans, undershirt and socks.

“Got enough stability now that you aren’t ready to run away at all times, huh?” March had asked, one night as they lay side by side. His hand had brushed the worn undershirt Healy slept in and he’d gestured to Healy’s bare feet.

Healy had stared.

“It’s just more comfortable like this,” Healy had replied. “Too damn hot to wear jeans.”

March had smiled, not fooled at all.

And now March was watching him too. It wasn’t the way Healy was used to being watched, like he was big enough that people noticed him coming, or as if he was a threat. March was watching him like he was enjoying the show.

“We have to get a new mattress,” March said as he sat down on the bed. He patted the mattress as if it was time to say goodbye to it and it had been a good mattress that had served him well.

“Why?” Healy asked, sitting down on the mattress too. “This one is fine. We don’t have to replace everything.”

“This one hurts your back,” March argued. “And this bedroom is large enough so we can get a big bed with a really good mattress.”

Ah, yes. He’d seen Healy stretching his back every morning and heard his remarks about how sleeping on anything softer than steel benches was a kind of a luxury to him. But there was no denying that Healy was getting too old for mediocre mattresses.

“You don’t have to do that-,” Healy said.

And March, who was always in such a hurry that he spent half of his life tripping over his own feet, stilled.

“I know,” March said. “I’m going to do it anyway.”

He scooted closer to Healy, there on this lumpy mattress in the house they’d built together. Slowly, they let themselves fall back on the mattress.

“This is a partnership, right? A team?” March asked, a question that had only one right and true answer. “That means we both do our bit and help each other out. You’re going to the school tomorrow to do this museum shit, so in return I’ll get us a nice mattress.”

“Alright then,” Healy said, turning on his side so that he’d face March. He grabbed the cool covers and pulled them up so that they rested lightly over their bodies, shielding them from the world.

It wasn’t a surprise when March reached out for him. Or when he put his head in the crook of Healy’s neck, already half-asleep.

Sleep came easy, for once.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Dawn came, lighting up their street. Healy stood at the kitchen window, dressed in his soft black polo shirt and jeans, waiting until Holly and March would come into the kitchen.

He’d spent his life in hiding, shoving away the sheer possibility of ever being in a relationship with a man. He’d even gotten married. But he’d still ended up here at this kitchen window, with a bottle of cold Yoo-Hoo in his hands.

 And running didn’t feel like a good option anymore. It didn’t feel like an option at all. He wasn’t sure what to do with the numb feeling in his chest. It wasn’t fear. It was what happened when fear was just about to break into your house.

Healy sipped his chocolate drink and waited.

In the beginning, changing his room to an office and staying at the rental instead had just felt like the sensible option. It saved money, and he spent almost all his time with March anyway. He was March’s business partner and he was just helping a single father out. Since March had his hand in a cast, it was sensible to have someone around to help fix the house and such. No one could dispute that.

And that was a good, solid explanation, wasn’t it?

Or it had been, at the time.

Healy watched the sun rise and listened for footsteps. Hard-boiled eggs sat on a dish, still steaming. He’d fished the bread-bag out of a drawer and it was placed in front of the toaster alongside the butter dish and the marmalade jar.

How many people would believe that going as a field trip chaperone to a museum with Holly’s class was just something dedicated business partners did?

And did it matter?

Times were changing.

Oh, how they were changing.

Healy turned around and tried to smile when Holly dragged herself to the kitchen, still half asleep when she poured milk on her sugary cereal.

Breakfast was a hurried affair. Healy sliced a hardboiled egg onto a buttered toast and watched as March grabbed it from his hand and bit into it before he could get it back. Holly was too busy shoveling cereal into her mouth to notice her father stealing toast. Healy just shook his head and buttered another slice of toast. This was no time for a fight.

He’d finished his own slice when Holly had called him, already holding her schoolbag.

Healy nodded, more at himself than anyone else. And stepped into the foyer and adjusted his jacket after putting it on, as if he was going to go undercover among youngsters who were planning something shady. Holly opened the door, the sunshine gleaming in her blonde hair.

They waved goodbye to March, who waved back before closing the door behind him. He’d spend the day unpacking boxes and watching the phone, just in case a case would come up.

“Are you okay, Mr. Healy?” Holly asked, when they were well on her way to her school. She was leaning back in the passenger seat of his car, fiddling with her necklace. “It’s not going to be that bad, you know.”

“It’s just been a long time since I went to school,” Healy said, trying to sound calm. “Don’t have a lot of good memories.”

“I think you don’t even have to go inside my school,” Holly said. “Just inside the school bus and the museum.”

Healy nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.

Holly was right, he never had to go inside the school. Healy parked his car in the school parking lot to see that a group of teenagers stood in front of an old school bus. When he stepped inside the bus and Holly joined her friends, Healy saw that the housewives regarded him with surprise, but nodded uncertainly when he made no move to leave.

He just sat down in one of the seats in the front of the bus and waited. It took a full five seconds for someone from the school to show up.

“It’s good to see that fathers will also be chaperones,” a woman Healy’s age said as soon as she stepped onto the bus and saw that Healy was there. The bus momentarily became silent as she stood there in her sweater vest. There was something pointed in her tone, as if trying to remind the teenagers that they should also ask their fathers to volunteer. She sat down beside Healy, glancing at the two mothers sitting beside each other two seats back.

“I’m the guidance counselor,” she said and reached out her hand to Healy, who shook it. “Philippa Clarke. Holly’s told me about you.”

Healy waited until she would start asking questions about his position in Holly’s life, or why he’d chosen to volunteer, but she just shushed a few giggling students. The bus driver shouted at all of them to be quiet and the bus slid into traffic.

None of the teenagers really looked at Healy for more than a few seconds. They just boarded the bus and continued talking about homework and movies they wanted to see.

“I feel like I’ve seen you before,” Healy said to the guidance counselor, putting his reading glasses on so he could see who he was dealing with. “I might be wrong, though. You meet a lot of people in my job.”

“I attended a few of your self-defense classes last year,” she said. “Now I know what to do if someone barges into the school and tries to hurt the kids.”

Healy nodded, considering this. All around him, happy teenagers gossiped and listened to music and read comic books.

“It’s good to know that these lessons are useful,” he said.

The noise in the bus was so loud that they could barely hear each other. And yet Healy was so attuned to Holly’s voice that he heard snatches of conversation. He could even recognize some of her friends’ voices since they spent quite a bit of time over at their new house, having sleepovers and doing homework together.

“I thought you said you were going to bring your dad?” Janet asked, sounding surly, even over the increasingly loud shouting from two boys in the back.

“I’ve got two dads,” Holly said. “Healy makes me lunch all the time and buys the groceries.”

Healy felt his heart skip a beat. He didn’t turn around, but straightened up in his seat. It was a part of his role as a chaperone to listen in on these sorts of conversations, right?

“That doesn’t make him your dad,” Janet said. “He’s just your dad’s roommate.”

Holly’s reply was downed out as the two boys in the back started screaming at each other. A few seconds later they were fighting.

“Stop that!” the bus driver shouted, but the fight just went from a couple of slaps on the shoulder to the two boys trying to knock each other’s teeth out.

Most of the other boys near the two had begun shouting advice and encouragement at them, grinning all the while.

The bus stopped at a red light and the bus driver sighed deeply.

Healy stood up.

The crowd that had been edging the boys on went silent when Healy approached the ones that were still fighting. Perhaps they’d heard the guidance counselor’s comment about attending Healy’s self-defense classes. Or perhaps they’d just taken a look at the big man walking towards them and decided that self-preservation was a valuable trait to possess.

But the two boys kept at it, pushing each other back and forth. They didn’t stop when Healy stood right in front of them, instead their fighting became pettier as they tried to kick and scratch each other.

Healy grabbed the boys’ shoulders and effortlessly dragged them apart, holding them securely away from each other. The two boys stopped staring at each other and spitting out insults and turned to look at him.

Healy could feel their eyes on his arms and his wide stance.

“Stop fighting like alley cats,” Healy said sternly. He stood there for a while, until the boys had returned to their seats and wiped their bloody noses with their sleeves.

They nodded.

The entire bus had become silent and everyone was watching him.

“Good,” Healy said. “I don’t want to have to come back here again. Do you understand?”

The boys nodded again.

Healy turned and went back to his seat.

“Nothing that won’t be healed when they come back home,” he said to the bus driver, the guidance counselor. Two teachers who he hadn’t noticed before nodded at him. One of the mothers was adjusting her dress and blatantly checking him out.

Healy ignored her and sat down in his seat.

He was used to the more attractive female clients flirting with him in a way that indicated that they thought he was easy pickings. They often became insulted when he rebuffed their advances or outright ignored them. March always bristled when clients acted like that. In the beginning, March’s unhappiness whenever people tried to charm Healy, or downright get into his pants while they were working had been something Healy had considered to be an odd quirk. But now he knew that March had felt that those people had been insulting Healy by acting in that way. And he’d been even more upset when Healy had just shrugged.

The museum itself was a partially run-down building. It was the sort of museum that had had multiple cuts to its funding and now resided in the only house that was available to it.

Healy looked at the chipped steps and faded carpet as the students hurried inside, eager to get this over with. It turned out that this was an art museum. Healy kept an eye on Holly’s friends, who all seemed to appreciate the water-color paintings.

Around an hour later, when the kids were eating their packed lunches in the half-empty little café that was a part of the museum, he realized that he was enjoying himself. Since he’d stopped the fight between those two boys, the other kids seemed to accept that he was a reliable person and left him alone.

“Smart girl, your Holly,” said one of the mothers, sliding up to him as he watched Holly among her group of friends.

“She’s not my-“ Healy began.

But there was something about the look on the woman’s face that silenced him. Perhaps it was the bags beneath her eyes, or the fact that she was watching the entire crowd at the same time, seemingly aware of where every kid was at all times.

“By blood, maybe,” she said, shrugging. “That doesn’t mean you’re not her dad.”

She left Healy standing there, swallowing a lump in his throat.

He couldn’t think of a thing to say about that, so he just quickened his pace so that he could keep an eye on the kids. Holly smiled at him, the carefree smile of a kid having fun.

And he couldn’t think of her as just some kid who lived in a house he helped build. He’d spent too much time with her for that.

The visit was almost over. Soon everyone was gathered at the main entrance, clutching their bags and complaining about having to go to school tomorrow to actually study.

The bus ride back to the school was very quiet.

And whenever some kid gestured towards him one of Holly’s friends pointed at her and Holly began explaining that he was there because Holly had asked him too. Most of those kids must have met March at some point, because none of them appeared surprised to hear that he was injured.

The words ‘stepfather’ and ‘other father’ and ‘business partner’ floated around in the bus, whispered far too loudly. Healy let the words wash over him, each one sounding just fine to him.

Holly didn’t flinch when she heard them. And neither did Healy. Instead, Healy let the words wash over him, each one sounding just fine to him.

They were all sounded true.

Holly didn’t say much as she walked beside Healy to his car. She just fiddled with the radio. Healy drove in silence, waiting for Holly to make some remark about joking with Janet about his role in her family, but she didn’t.

“You should come on the next trip too,” Holly said as they arrived back home. “This was fun. I can’t wait to tell dad that you straight up stopped a fight!”

“Alright, sweetie,” Healy said, opening the car door.

Holly nodded, looking as if she had just made the deal of a lifetime.

March was standing in the doorway, a cigarette between his fingers and smoke curling up into the sky.

They were home.

 


End file.
